Dancing in the kitchen
Sad cowboy music and coffee brewing
You can’t tell if you’re dreaming
you’ve accepted it
the women you see swaying
Will become your salvation
or damnation
You don’t care
bevause eithier way you’ve had your taste of heaven
in this little house in the hills
dancing in the kitchen
syaying up late
flipping pancakes onto plastic plates.
have your prayers been answered
You take it all in
before the music stops again
Put an anchor along a taut line
Right where you want it by
Using enough cord to form a
Sling to pass through itself 3 or 4 times.
It holds firm to its place when angled off
Kilter with added weight.
This is the last carton of milk I must buy,
These are the final seven days-in-giant-lettered-boxes
I must fill to read like Braille at 5:00 AM,
my eyes too puffy to discern
which advent pills are next.
These are the culminating compliments
we can gift each other,
a thin layer of honey spread across all the pleas
ignored and barbs spent like careless pennies
we both hope we can forget.
I remember mowing
around the stepping stones
unsure who might win
the battle between
exhausted blades
and limestone slices
a cautious barber
preserving the path
today I mowed over
sunken stony faces
the earth slowly
swallowing us
words – tripled as Shakespeare says
make an excellent starting point, as long as you remember
to choose carefully
to make them mean something –
at least to yourself (who cares about others)
well, others would appreciate a message, too
so let’s do this:
make it up as you go, see where the letters
take you
here or there or far away make no difference
just make them real, and
not pulled out of your bot
We’re here in the bosom of LexPoMo to find respite
from the constant thrum of must do, should do, last chance,
from the despair and fear channeled by news of war,
famine, genocide, environmental degradation,
from blatant betrayals by those in halls of power who act
in self-interest without regard for citizens or Constitution —
and we’re here to create verses of love, hope, grief, anger,
sometimes with humor or satire, always with truth and integrity,
so that in this vibrant community we can through poetry affirm
our respect for, and faith in, the founding principles of this nation.
“miss, why does pride month exist?”
because today i heard
two thirteen-year-old
boys treat the phrase
happy pride
as an insulting “joke”
rather than a celebration.
because a child
can call another child
a slur to their face
and not even flinch
at the bile spilling
out of her mouth.
because too many
kids have to whisper
“please don’t tell my mom”
for wanting to love
someone
in the same way
their peers love
someone.
because in 2026
“gay” is still
the worst thing
another person
could call you
in the seventh grade.
because a trans student
cannot feel safe
walking the halls,
using the restroom,
or being herself
unapologetically.
because i have to
teach love
and unteach hate
over & over & over
& over & over again
and it is still
not
enough.
because tonight
somebody’s child goes home
and cries themselves to sleep
because they believe
they were born
wrong.
baby,
you weren’t made wrong.
this world was.
this picnic table rounded with styrofoam cups
I had a Kool-Aid stand with my friend Dynda when I was ten.
We called the sweet, green-dyed drink Hector’s Nectar.
It was magical, we said, because we made it with bumblebee sweat.
It was so good it caused butterflies to swoon and hummingbirds to weep.
Sales were disappointing.
The product just couldn’t live up to the hype.
